


Isolation

by blueblood (sangreazul)



Series: chartered lives [4]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Death, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, From Sex to Love, Loneliness, M/M, Nostalgia, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Slow Romance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangreazul/pseuds/blueblood
Summary: Nate thought he had never felt more alone in his life exactly four times in his 40 years. He was sitting up in his bed at 4am, gently stroking the soft, pale skin of his partner’s hand with his calloused thumb.“What’s wrong?” Rafe’s hazy, faint morning voice broke through the silence. Nate smirked, carefully brushing his hair back off his face and leaning down again to plant a small kiss on his forehead.“Nothing, idiot.” He murmured against his skin..RED.
Relationships: Nathan Drake/Elena Fisher, Rafe Adler/Nathan Drake
Series: chartered lives [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098251
Kudos: 5





	Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> !!!tw: reference of death, s*icide, child abuse!!!
> 
> i started this with two prompts and somehow only really used one - ah well the thought was there......

Nate thought he had never felt more alone in his life exactly four times in his 40 years. The first time, he was 5 years old, tightly gripping Sam’s hand as they walked through an empty house after school one day. He could distinctly remember the hotness of the tears that trickled down his face; he hadn’t seen Sam cry that day, not for at least another decade, but sometimes, if he let his mind drift back, he could see his shoulders shaking. The novelty of making their own rules in the empty house had worn off not long after their mother had died. The silence, barren rooms and wasteland hallways had frightened them once they’d seen what could be inside them. They would be informed later by a large man in a brown suit that their father had given them up. He had glasses and wrinkles around his eyes and Nate had bitten him when he tried to pull him out of Sam’s grip. He found himself wondering, more often than he’d like to admit, whether he still had that scar; he’d really dug his teeth in.

He was standing, looking out across the river, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of Sam’s jacket. A flurry of thoughts had bombarded him, each one screaming something different at him. He was 13 and he was going to be alone for a year, more alone than he had ever been, in an orphanage that delighted in watching him starve. As he had got older, Nate had realised a 13 year old’s year very much differed from an actual year, especially one that hadn’t happened yet, but, as he stood, bottom lip quivering at the edge of the city, he was 13 and a 13 year old’s year was all he knew. He thought about the old lady, collapsing, an indiscernible distance from her family, broken promises and wishes never coming true. Her voice was fragile, her desires written only in sand. The water was still, the breeze barely blowing, yet the prickles of cold down his spine and at his fingertips were the only things telling him he was breathing. In and out. The cut on his face began to sting as he rubbed his eyes and he held his breath.

The third time he was lying in a bed in Scotland, a million miles from anything, staring up at the ceiling as the sun rose behind him. The light wasn’t in the place yet for him to see his own shadow against the plaster so he numbly raised his hand and stretched out his fingers. Still nothing. He was transparent. He was 25 and the weight of his brother’s death had finally hit him after five days of travelling. His world had crumbled down around him, debris slicing his face open, cutting his hands, crushing his bones against the floor. When he blinked, it stung, so he kept his eyes open. He didn’t lower his hand until all the blood had left it, his fingertips white. Then he let it drop. He glanced over at the mirror that reflected the wall just above him. It was plain. Nate looked back up at the ceiling. 

He didn’t dwell on the last one too much, probably because it was too recent for his brain to process properly, but at 32 years old he watched as all colour got drained out of his life again as he stumbled out of Elena’s driveway, angry and hurt. He yanked open his car door and drove to the edge of a desert. It was well into the early hours of the morning when he got there, the stars thousands upon thousands of miles away from him in a distant sky. He hit the steering wheel with his fists and pressed his forehead against the cool leather. By mid afternoon he had come to the conclusion that hook-ups and two month summer flings were much more suited to him, or even better yet, no strings were attached if you were researching the great explorer Sir Francis Drake again for the first proper time in years. And so he nearly drowned himself in it.

Loneliness had never been new to him; he would greet it now as it was, an old friend he couldn’t bring himself to cut off, who watched him over his shoulder constantly, creeping up on him at whichever moment it felt like. It had every apartment key he’d ever owned, the address of every one-night-stand, the contract to every car, every job, every phone. It called him sometimes, late at night, just to have a quick chat. Nate would tell it how he was doing, an update of sorts, then run out of news and they’d sit in awkward silence neither one of them wanting to hang up because the bed was empty next to them. That was the only thing Nate hadn’t grown accustomed to during his partnership with loneliness; he found it difficult to ground himself if someone wasn’t sleeping near him.

He could probably write a book, if he had the patience, of all the lovers with gold dust on their fingertips and glitter shining in their eyes who fell asleep with their limbs intertwined with his, only to find themselves waking up alone. It would be long and complicated and there would be gaps in the timeline which he was certain no one could fill, not even himself. A long list of people who grew to despise him would be the index, each one either taking up an entire chapter space or at least proving as a worthy opponent to all the other excuses as to why he dived head first into meaningless connections. 

He couldn’t tell anyone why, not even himself; a mix of grief, arrogance, unfulfilled desire or lust had washed over him, coursed through his blood in great, big, overwhelming waves, drowning him in the longing to be longed for. To be missed. He enjoyed the feeling, revelled in it, of the lingering stare he got as he vanished for the millionth time with the millionth person. If he turned around then, gazing at them an apologetic twinkle in his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, they would run at him, arms open wide, pull him back and never let him leave. ..at least that’s what 27 year old Nate had assumed. 

30 year old Nate had got wiser, more aware of the effect of the concept he was doing as opposed to him being the one to do it. He’d also nearly fallen in love, grasping at the delicate threads around his and Elena’s friendship, and then romance, to find some sort of normalcy. And he wanted it too; he wanted to love her so badly it hurt, but she was above him, swimming in clouds he’d burn at the slightest touch of. 

35 year old Nate was just about to end an engagement because he had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t really love and he was almost content with that. He expected it; Sully seemed to be void of any true romantic attachment, Sam had never had a lasting girlfriend, and Elena became more herself again when they settled to break off a doomed relationship. And so, at the wise age of 36, Nate had become his 25 year old self again. He frequented bars, not to get drunk off the liquor, but the taste of someone’s mouth on his, and threw himself into his research and drive when the promise of a normal life had come in the form of few and far between adrenaline rushes.

And then there was 40 year old Nate. He was sitting up in his bed at 4am, gently stroking the soft, pale skin of his partner’s hand with his calloused thumb. He listened to his breathing, soft and steady, and all he could really think, while the moonlight leaked through the thinly veiled windows was that he loved him with every inch of his being. He could feel his soul tearing itself apart every time he managed to make Rafe smile, watching light rose dust his cheeks. His eyes were soft, the light seemed to dance in them in the evenings. 

“What’s wrong?” Rafe’s hazy, faint morning voice broke through the silence. Nate smirked, carefully brushing his hair back off his face and leaning down again to plant a small kiss on his forehead.  
“Nothing, idiot.” He murmured against his skin, then positioned himself to lie facing his boyfriend. He placed a kiss on his nose. Rafe’s face scrunched up slightly at the touch, his half open eyes now fluttering closed once more. His warm hands sleepily pulled Nate closer to him again and he buried his face in his chest. He muttered something, but Nate missed it, opting instead to rest his chin on top of his silky hair and wrap his arms around his shoulders. He scattered small kisses on his forehead and hairline when he was certain Rafe had fallen back into a deeper slumber, then closed his own eyes slowly. They didn’t sting.


End file.
